


Brothers and Sons

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Family, Family Feels, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Holmes Family, Parent-Child Relationship, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Step-parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 10:32:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11125305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: When Sherlock learned about his brother's beginnings, he needed to find out the truth





	Brothers and Sons

Sherlock was eight years old when he first deduced the truth about his family. Mycroft was away at school, Dad was working, Mum had gone to the shops and Sherlock was at home alone, since school was closed for the day. 

It was pouring rain and he didn't want to incur his mother’s wrath by tracking mud into the house if he went to deduce outside, so he looked around and decided to deduce the family photos on the mantle. 

The first was a photo of Mycroft as an infant, already chubby with the tiniest bit of red hair. Next to that was a photo of Sherlock as a wide eyed infant, grasping his father’s finger. The third was when Sherlock was a toddler, the four of them, with Sherlock in front on his father’s knee and Mycroft standing behind and between their parents. 

Sherlock frowned in concentration. He'd seen the photos plenty of times, but he tried to remember what he'd learned. That Mummy was a professor was clear from the way she stood. He looked at Mycroft and suddenly blinked. Something wasn't right. 

He looked back at the other two photos, then started walking around the house. The photos of Mummy holding Mycroft as a baby and then Sherlock as one were both on her nightstand, as was a picture of Dad alone. In the hall was a picture of Dad with both the boys. 

The rest of the photos on the walls were a bit more recent, so he went back to the living room and pulled out the photo albums. 

By the time Mummy came back, they were put away and Sherlock was in his room, pretending to read. But his mind was whirring. 

Mycroft would be home for the holidays soon, he'd ask him then. 

**

With a sigh, Mycroft looked at the family home. He missed it sometimes more than he’d ever admit, but school was more important. He steeled himself and opened the door.

“Oh Mycie, you’re home!” Mummy reached him first, enveloping him in a hug. Father wasn’t too far behind, and then his bag was being taken and Mummy was steering him into the kitchen already peppering him with questions.

Sherlock peeked around the corner, took in the scene, and vanished again, knowing better than to get in the way of Mummy. Mycroft took the proffered cakes, though he’d been trying to lose some of this weight, and dutifully answered as best he could.

Finally, after a thorough grilling, he was allowed to make his own escape and headed up to his room. Sherlock was on his stomach on his bed, reading one of Mycroft’s textbooks. He noticed Sherlock had moved his chemistry set onto the desk from his room to Mycroft’s and had made a few other claims on the room since Mycroft had been away.

Smiling softly, Mycroft sat on the edge of the bed and tousled his little brother’s hair. “Reading about biology?” he asked, looking at the page.

Sherlock rolled to his side and fixed Mycroft with one of his piercing looks. “How come there aren’t any pictures of you and Dad when you were a baby?”

Mycroft blinked, smile frozen in place. It took a few moments for him to compose himself. “You noticed that, did you?”

Sherlock nodded and sat up, gesturing at one of the charts. “You’ve got blue eyes, like Mum. Dad’s got darker eyes, so the blue should be recessive.”

“Your eyes are light too,” said Mycroft.

“But not in the same way. And there still aren’t many pictures of you from before I was born, and none with Dad.”

Mycroft closed the textbook and put it aside, wondering if it would be better to have this conversation with Mummy. Then again, Sherlock clearly hadn’t asked her about it. “That’s because Dad isn’t my biological father. Mum was married before, they split up when I was five.”

Sherlock frowned in that way he had when he was clearly thinking. “How come you never told me?” he asked at last.

“I never really thought about it, and I suppose Mum didn’t either. Dad treats us both the same.”

“What was his name?” asked Sherlock.

“Michael, I believe. Harris. Michael Harris.” Mycroft watched Sherlock.

“Is that why you don’t like it when Mum calls you Myc?”

“Partially, yes. It’s also not the name she gave me.”

Sherlock nodded as if it all made perfect sense, wrapping his arms around his knees. “So Mum married Dad not long after your Dad left?”

“He’s not my Dad,” said Mycroft, with perhaps a bit of force. Sherlock looked back up at him. Mycroft took a breath. “He fathered me, was around for the first five years, and I’ve not heard anything from him since the day he moved out.”

“How could he not contact you for ten years?” asked Sherlock, clearly not understanding.

Mycroft stood and started unpacking his bag. “I don’t know. But that’s his choice. I don’t think about him, Mum never talks about him, so I just pretend he doesn’t exist. Yes, she married Dad less than a year later, and then you came along not long after.”

Sherlock watched him as he moved around the room. After a few long minutes he climbed out of bed and suddenly hugged Mycroft. “Doesn’t matter, you’re still my brother.”

Mycroft was surprised by the show of affection and gently placed a hand on his back. “Yes I am. And I’ll always take care of you.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, just let go and darted from the room. Mycroft scrubbed his face in his hands and wondered if that would be the end of it.

**

Sherlock never did ask Mummy. But he did take it on himself to do some investigating. It was a bit of a puzzle, after all. Who was this man that had married Mummy and then left her and Mycroft? Rummaging in Mummy’s office gave him Mycroft’s birth certificate, which confirmed the name. In a box in the back of closet a few weeks later, he located a single picture of a man he didn’t know, holding a toddler Mycroft. He pocketed it and told no one.

Then, for a long time, he let it lie. There was only so much he could do. After all, the name was fairly common. But it was still a puzzle that lurked in the back of his mind. When he was sixteen he went to the courthouse and manage to locate his Mum’s marriage certificates. A little more information on the stranger.

Mycroft was busy these days, starting his career. It all sounded dreadfully boring to Sherlock, but it did also give him a little more access to government files, if he was careful. If Mycroft knew he was snooping in his office, he never said.

Finally, Sherlock hit on something useful. A visa application for the United States. So, the trail would have to lead there.

**

“Really, Sherlock, if there’s something you’re looking for you could just ask,” said Mycroft, finding him in his office on yet another day. “If you keep waltzing in here you’re going to get my security clearance pulled.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “They can’t fire you, you know too much.”

“Alright, toss me into the Thames, then.” Mycroft sighed, coming over to his brother.

“You can’t help me,” said Sherlock, standing up.

Mycroft knew that it wouldn’t be difficult to trace his brother’s searches, but if he was that insistent on secrecy, maybe he should let him have it.

“Fine, I won’t help then. Can I take you out for lunch, then? You’re not eating enough.”

“You’re eating enough for both of us,” sneered Sherlock, prancing his way out of the office.

Mycroft shook his head and sat down at his desk, hoping that whatever Sherlock was doing, it wasn’t too criminal.

**

When Sherlock was twenty, he went to the United States. He didn’t have the resources here that he had back home, but he’d narrowed it down to a few Michael Harris’s that were the right age. The first two clearly weren’t the man in the photograph, but the third one… Sherlock watched him go into a coffee shop and knew, beyond any doubt, that it was the right man.

The next day he was in that same coffee shop when Michael Harris walked in. Sherlock frowned as he deduced. The man was married, happily, for many years. He had three children, one of which was young enough to have left a chocolate smear on his trousers. His voice still carried a British accent, but it was softened a bit by the years spent in America.

When the man walked by his table, Sherlock nicked his wallet, memorizing the man’s address before leaving the wallet where it could be found.

He walked by the house later that day. It was all frustratingly ordinary, just a typical American house in a quiet neighborhood.

For the next several days, Sherlock lingered in the coffee shop in the mornings, watching him. The fourth day, however, Michael surprised him by sitting down at the table. “You’ve been watching me.”

Sherlock hadn’t quite calculated for this to happen. But there wasn’t any point in denying it.

“Yes.”

“You’re English. This about Violet? You look a bit like her.”

Sherlock studied him for a moment, then took out the faded picture. “Not about Violet, no.”

Michael took the picture and studied it, letting out a slow breath. “Your brother, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded.

“How is he doing? How’s your Mum?”

Sherlock cocked his head. “You’ve had no contact since he was five years old, do you sincerely want to know how he’s doing?”

Michael sighed and sat back, sipping his coffee. “Your Mum doesn’t know you're here, does she?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Neither does Mycroft.”

“So all you really know is that I’m Mycroft’s birth father and that I haven’t contacted him or your mother since we split up.”

“Correct.”

“Okay, first of all I congratulate you on tracking me down,” Michael gave a small smile. “Must have your mother’s brains. Second of all, it was a mutual decision between your Mum and I. I had a job offer here in the States. She didn’t want to come, and frankly our marriage was on the rocks before then, so we decided to simply split. I think she might have already been interested in your Dad, but either way she told me I didn’t need to keep in touch.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why would she do that?”

“You’d have to ask her that question. I did write, a couple times, but when there wasn’t any response I took the hint.”

“Didn’t you care?” Sherlock leaned forward.

“Of course I cared,” said Michael calmly. “We didn’t plan on him, but I did try to do the right thing.”

“You’ve got a new family.”

“Yes. I’ve been married sixteen years now. We’ve got three kids, two daughters and a son. My wife knows I was married before, and that I have another child, but I don’t have contact with him.”

“And would you want to talk to him?” Sherlock watched his face.

Michael shrugged. “If he wanted to talk to me. I know she got remarried pretty quick after we split, I never wanted to get in the way of that.”

Sherlock took a card out of his pocket and took the photo back. “Call him?”

“Now? It’s afternoon in London, so…. I mean…” He looked at the card.

“Please?” asked Sherlock, quietly.

Michael nodded. “I will. Now, do you have somewhere to stay?”

“I do. I… I’ll see you tomorrow.” Sherlock gathered his things and hurried away.

**

Mycroft was sitting in his office after a particularly tense meeting. He rubbed his temples, thinking about ordering in, when his phone rang. Without looking at it he picked it up. “Mycroft Holmes.”

The person on the other end hesitated, and then a voice he’d all but forgotten spoke. “Hello Mycroft.”

To Mycroft, it felt like the bottom dropped out. He took a few breaths. “How did you get this number?”

“Your brother gave it to me.”

“Sherlock? How?” And suddenly all of Sherlock’s time in his office made perfect sense. How had he not seen this coming? How had he done this? _Why_ had he done this?

“Oh I suspect he’s got his mother’s brains, same as you.” Michael sounded much calmer than Mycroft felt. “How are you?”

“Fine,” said Mycroft automatically. “Working.”

“Ah, am I interrupting anything?”

“No, no.” Mycroft leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Just got out of a meeting. Still in America, then?”

“Yeah, I stayed. Got married again a few years after I came here. But I never forgot about you.”

“You never called, you never wrote…” Mycroft’s voice had an edge of anger.

“I did write. There wasn’t any response, so I figured your Mum wanted me to stay away. And I did.”

He wasn’t lying, or at least, he honestly believed what he was saying. “Do you have… children?”

“Three. You’ve got two half-sisters and a half-brother. I know you won’t believe me, Mycroft, but I have missed you, wondered, hoped you were okay.”

“I do believe you,” said Mycroft quietly.

“Thank you,” said Michael, honestly. “I don’t know what - Sherlock was it? - Was trying to accomplish, but he asked me to call you.”

“He may have simply been curious.” Mycroft took another breath. “I don’t know,” he echoed.

“Are you doing well?”

Mycroft nodded, then cleared his throat. “Yes. I work in government.”

“I always knew you’d go far.” Mycroft could hear the smile and pride in his voice. “And your brother seems pretty clever too.”

“Far too much for his own good, sometimes.”

Michael laughed. “Well, listen, Mycroft, I’ll let you get back to work. Do… do you want my number?”

Mycroft nodded again and reached for a pen. “Please?”

Michael gave it to him and hung up. Mycroft stared at the phone for a few long minutes feeling five years old all over again.

**

Sherlock was in the airport two weeks later when Mycroft landed in the US. He hadn’t yet met Michael’s new family, but, well, he was still here, may as well help Mycroft. Besides, he’d probably get an earful from Mummy when he went home anyway.

Mycroft actually looked nervous as he got off the plane. 

Sherlock sauntered up to him. “Hi, bro.”

Mycroft gave him an irritated look. “Sherlock. So I see you found what you were looking for.”

“Yes. And we’re supposed to have dinner in a few hours.” Sherlock led the way out to the car he’d managed to rent despite his age.

“Have you met them?” asked Mycroft, getting in and buckling up.

“Just Michael.” Sherlock glanced at him. “He seems nice.”

“Lots of people get divorced, Sherlock. Doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with them.” He looked out the window and put on a pair of sunglasses.

Sherlock pulled out and headed to the place he was renting. “Did you know you were an accident?”

Mycroft sighed. “Yes. I can do basic math. I was a full term baby, born seven months after my parents wed. I can assure you, however, Sherlock, you were fully planned.”

Sherlock lapsed into a grumbly silence. He knew Mycroft was still anxious. And Sherlock was a bit nervous too, though he wouldn’t admit to buying some of his brother’s favorite cakes to munch on before the dinner.

**

Mycroft couldn’t help but feel like this was all a massive mistake as they pulled up to the unassuming house. Perhaps it was just as well that he didn’t drive; his only escape was Sherlock or walking. Still, he steeled himself and got out, walking to the door with a straight back and ringing the bell.

A little girl yanked open the door and grinned at the pair, just staring. A moment later her mother came up behind her. “Alice what did I tell you about answering the door?” She turned to the brothers and gestured them in. “I’m sorry. I’m May. Sherlock, Mycroft, good to meet you.”

“And you as well,” said Mycroft politely as they were led into a living room. The house was comfortable and well lived in, with evidence of three young children, though the kids themselves were presently out of sight.

“Sherlock can you help me in the kitchen?” May asked.

Mycroft and Sherlock shared a glance. Mycroft nodded and Sherlock followed her, leaving Mycroft standing alone in the middle of the room.

Footsteps on the carpet told him Michael was stepping into the room behind him. He turned and faced the man he hadn’t seen in a bit more than twenty years.

Michael studied his face. Mycroft could see some of himself in the other man’s features. “Thank you for coming,” said Michael, quietly.

“You invited me,” said Mycroft.

Michael stepped forward and went for a handshake, to Mycroft’s relief. “I hear your mother is well?”

“She is, yes.”

“Have a seat,” said Michael, leading the way to the sofa. “You’re looking well. I’m glad.”

“Thank you. You seem to be doing good for yourself.”

“I am, yeah.” 

Suddenly Alice ran back into the room, followed by her sister, a couple of years older, and then their older brother. “Sorry, Dad,” he said, trying to corral his siblings.

Mycroft couldn’t help his smile, remembering well trying to wrangle Sherlock when they had company. “It’s fine. I’m Mycroft.”

“Brandon. You met Alice, and the middle one is Katy. You’re our… brother?” he asked, looking at his Dad.

“Half, anyway,” said Mycroft. Alice and Katy ran to hide behind a chair, peeking out him.

“It’s good to meet you,” said Brandon, sitting in the chair and tilting it back a bit. His sisters giggled and ran off again.

“How old are they?” asked Mycroft.

“Alice is four, Katy is six, and I’m ten,” said Brandon.

Michael nodded. “I know it’s quite an age gap.”

Mycroft shrugged. “It’s seven years between myself and Sherlock.”

May stuck her head into the room. “Dinner is ready.”

Michael stood again. “Come on, let’s eat.”

**

After dinner, Sherlock found himself entertaining the children. Katy was doing her best to braid his hair, while Brandon peppered him with questions about England. May was putting Alice to bed.

They had gradually relaxed during the meal, making small talk, learning about each other’s lives. It was all remarkably… normal, in a way. It didn’t feel like the end of a quest to Sherlock, but perhaps it was the start of something new.

Mycroft and Michael were talking quietly in the corner. Sherlock knew his brother better than anyone, and he’d seen his posture change. Now he leaned in to Michael, listening. From here, Sherlock could certainly see the family resemblances. That nose, if nothing else.

Finally, they finished their conversation and stood. Michael patted Mycroft on the arm. “You two will come back again before you go home, right?”

Mycroft nodded. “I’m here for a week.”

“And I took some time off work. Maybe you and I can go somewhere tomorrow?”

Mycroft hesitated. “Yes, I’d like that.”

Michael smiled and Sherlock gently extricated himself from the children. “We’ll come back,” he promised.

They walked out to the car and headed back to the rental. In the dark of the car Mycroft spoke quietly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” answered Sherlock, and perhaps, after everything, that was all that needed to be said.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, this ones kinda personal. My parents divorced when I was two and my Dad remarried quickly. I didn't meet my birth mom again until I was 18. And I have a little brother, though thankfully not a Sherlock.
> 
> Thank you for TheArtStudentYouHate and HumsHappily for reading it over. You can find me on tumblr at merindab.tumblr.com


End file.
